


Home

by chronicAngel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced miscarriage, POV Second Person, Separations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 22:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18979651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chronicAngel/pseuds/chronicAngel
Summary: "The police say they don't need any more swabs from you. Your test results will available in a couple of days. You can go home now, if you're ready."





	Home

You lay curled onto your side in the hospital, face buried in the single pillow on your bed while you cry. It's been almost four hours since you got here. You don't remember _how_ you got here, just know that you woke up and you were sore everywhere.

A nurse had looked at you sadly while explaining what happened. Telling you that they were going to run some tests. Make sure you didn't catch anything. Asked you if you remembered what happened to you, if there was anything you might be able to tell the doctor or the nurses or the police. Said she was sorry. That was what had done it for you. Hearing that she was sorry. It wasn't real for you until you heard that first apology.

And now you lay here, sobbing into the pillow despite how raw your throat is. The room is standard for a hospital room, all clean, crisp whites and blues and frigid air. It hurts to move. You're afraid to move, on top of that. You don't want to face the world yet. You're not ready to.

When there's a knock on the door, you assume it's the doctor, or one of the several nurses who have come to poke and prod at you for various tests, or that one nice nurse who had said she'd see about getting you something to eat despite the fact that you feel like if you even try to eat you'll throw up. No matter who it is, you don't uncurl from your little ball. You feel safe like this. Or as safe as you can feel, now. You wonder if you'll ever properly feel safe again.

"Jade."

His voice makes you freeze in the middle of a shaking breath, too scared to even move. You're one of the only people who knows what his voice sounds like when he's been crying, and you can hear it now. Hear the tears on his voice. The worry. The guilt, and God, you wish there wasn't any guilt. You wonder how many people are going to feel guilty about this.

He must take a careful step forward when you don't respond, because after a minute you feel his warm hand on your bare back and you finally let out a hiss of pain and curl up into an even tighter ball because he's just accidentally touched the deep scrapes all over your back. Immediately, you feel him pull his hand back away from your skin. You can imagine the horror in his eyes.

After a long minute, you force yourself to look at him over your shoulder. He's not wearing his shades. You suppose he wouldn't have a need to. It's nearly two in the morning, after all, and when you think back to your walk home (God, you don't want to think about your walk home) you think the moon was only half-full when you'd been able to see it. Not enough to hurt even Dave's sensitive eyes.

You hate that it lets you see the concern in his red eyes. You don't think the two of you have even made eye contact in the last two months. You can hardly remember the last time you'd talked.

"I'm uh..." He starts, voice softer than it should be. Softer than even she is used to. "I'm still down as your emergency contact," he says, finally pulling his eyes away from her to look around the hospital room like there's anything about it unique from other hospital rooms. And of course he is. You haven't been in the hospital since your separation, so there was no opportunity for you to change it. You weren't really in a state of mind to protest it when you were admitted tonight. Your work has it changed to John in case of any sort of incident.

"Of course you are," you croak, after the silence has dragged on for too long. You don't want to try to start a new conversation because all of the other things you could talk about would hurt more than this. "You're still my husband." You see his fists clench at his sides because in a way, it is only technically true. You've been separated for two months. You know that it is not Dave's first choice. Really, it's not yours either. How could you not love him? Didn't you promise to forever? Didn't you promise to spend every day together, loving each other?

"If I ever see the bastard who did this, I'll kill him." His voice is terrifyingly low. Threatening. Finally you sit up, resting your hands on his cheeks. Your eyes are still filled with tears when he meets them, and you can see them well up in his own after only a second. He could never stand to see you cry.

_It was a nobody,_ you want to reassure. _I don't even know who it was._ And that is true, but you don't think it'll be helpful. With all of your knowledge of Dave Strider, you know that he wants it to be a specific person. He wants it to be a target he can hunt down. He wants it to be someone he can be mad at, and not a nameless, faceless predator. "You shouldn't have been out by yourself that late, Harley," he breathes, moving his hands to rest on yours.

You sniff. "It's still Harley-Strider until August," you protest.

"Harley-Strider's too clunky." It's an argument you've been having for years. Even more in the last few months that you were together.

You laugh a little, but it's too painful and your chest is still too tight and it transitions into sobs quickly and he moves forward immediately to wrap his arms tightly around you. He could never not. Could never just stand there while you sobbed in front of him. It's part of the reason you wanted the divorce. Because you needed space. You needed to distance yourself from your emotions and somehow even Dave of all people couldn't understand that.

He shushes you. Murmurs sweet things that you can't properly hear into your hair and promises to protect you. He's promised to protect you before, though, and look how that's gone for you now. Look how it's gone for any of the people he's sworn to protect. Any of the things. Still, you move your arms to wrap around him and your muscles feel stiff from how long you've laid in the same position but it doesn't matter because he's here. For the first time in months, he's here. For the first time in a long time, you want him here.

"I wish I was holding her," you whisper into his shoulder after a long time.

He squeezes you tighter and you can hear his shaking breath as warm tears fall into your hair. You've been through too much in the last four months. Together and apart. You don't know which leaves you feeling more empty. You don't know why this of all things makes you feel more naked than you've ever felt in front of him. The hospital gown is too loose for you because of how skinny you are (God, you'd lost all of the weight so fast) and you aren't even wearing any underwear under them because your panties had been shredded, but it's not even that. It's being in front of him with scrapes on your back and bruises on your face.

It's knowing that someone else has seen you like that. Has seen you inside out, has _touched_ you in that way. Your stomach turns and not for the first time you feel like throwing up. You don't, though. You just stay in his arms, let the tears well up and pour down your cheeks and sobs tear out of your throat. He doesn't say anything in response, just holds you. Eventually, the nurse from earlier knocks on the door with a turkey and cheese sandwich in a little plastic box. "The police say they don't need any more swabs from you. Your test results will available in a couple of days. You can go home now, if you're ready."

You look up at Dave. Your husband. He has the softest look in his eyes as he meets your gaze. Somehow, his expression says, _I'll call John if you don't want to go with me._ Maybe you just know him well enough by now to know that's what he's thinking. "Let's go home," you murmur.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm almost exclusively a third person writer now, but second person just felt more right for this piece, y'know?


End file.
